elegance is refusal
by TolkienGirl
Summary: The battle to get Steve better pants is a hard one. (Steve/Natasha-ish; fluffy, almost crack-clothes-shopping and some mild innuendo on Nat's part ensues. Mild language/themes. Touch of angst. Post-Avengers, pre-Winter Soldier.)


**A/N: Well this is plain and simple humorous fluff. A dash of Romanogers, and a little bit of Natasha being naughty. Title is a Coco Chanel quote.**

She can see the top of his head over the dressing room door. He's so damn tall, which only makes it funnier that she is never (alright, _rarely_ ) intimidated by him…not to mention that at the moment, he's completely under her power.

"These are really tight," says Steve. He sounds confused.

Natasha has to school her features for three full seconds before she can answer. "Just let me see," she says at last, trademark Serious Voice in (relative) order.

The door swings open.

The jeans he's wearing are…worth it.

Natasha runs her fingers over her shoulder, as though she's completely lost in critical thought. "Turn around?" she inquires, still innocent, still serious, and he's half-obeyed before he stops and gets the Look. It's the look that (rarely, sometimes) intimidates her.

"What are you doing?"

"Trying to see if we can dress you like a 21st century man, not a grandpa."

Steve's onto her, though. His eyes narrow, and the dressing room door slams shut. "Khakis are good enough for me," she hears him say, tightly.

He barely looks at her the whole ride home.

It's worth it.

...

Steve is always a gracious host. Or he would be, if he knew how. He pours her orange juice in a coffee mug and offers her the last bagel. She waves it away and tells him that he's not allowed to keep using the library card she helped him get for pre-war movies. He's supposed to be catching up.

Steve rubs the back of his neck, drinks the orange juice himself when he's sure she doesn't want it. "I'm never going to catch up," he says, with just a touch of a wry smile. The Star-Spangled Man with a Plan has a sense of humor, or he would, if there wasn't pain creeping up behind his eyes.

There's something dry in her throat, but since the bagel is untouched on the table, she can't blame it on that.

"We need to go clothes-shopping," she says, to fill the silence.

He lifts an eyebrow. "Again?"

"Yes." She forces the smile away from her lips. "You need some running clothes that aren't army issue. Sorry, SHIELD issue. You need another leather jacket—you wear that one every day."

"I don't understand," Steve says deliberately, "Why you take such an interest in what I wear."

She might not understand either. It's more, somehow, than enjoying how good he looks in jeans and tight tees and—well, anything really, though those baggy khakis fight their hardest. It's just…the Avengers aren't assembled, at the moment, and Steve still is. He just is. Alone, and probably lonely.

Not, of course, that she'd admit to knowing anything about loneliness.

"I'm bored," she says, layering that flirty edge over her tone that always makes him redden. It's reflexive, maybe for both of them.

"Fine," he says. But his gaze holds hers, hard and steady. "No pants."

"No pants is always fine with me," she deadpans.

It's a wonder the bagel doesn't come flying at her head. Steve turns his back on her, but she can see that his ears are red. "That's not what I meant."

...

He comes along, though, and they go jacket shopping. She finds a more modern leather piece, rubs it between her fingers. "This is good," she says, and then finds a dark blue zip-up that will play nicely with his perennial white T's.

Steve, though he won't admit it, likes reading the novelty t-shirts. "I don't understand," he says, "What exactly are they turning down for?"

Natasha rolls her eyes and tugs him by the arm, towards the checkout.

She slaps her forehead in mock frustration when they get in the car.

"What?"

"Darn," she says, all innocent and serious again. "Meant to get you some leather pants."

She wonders if he's going to get all pissy and senior citizen on her again, but he doesn't. His eyes crinkle up at the corners, and those firm lips twitch into a smile. "Only in your dreams, Romanoff."


End file.
